


The Preamble, Redux - Eight Clauses That Define a Relationship

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Paladin 'Verse [9]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, OT3, Riding Crops, chaptered fic, childlessness explained, paladin 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Preamble, Redux is a series of short, somewhat related fics in the Paladin 'Verse, with multiple overlaps, some are direct sequels, others expand on specific events referred to in another fic, and others simply reference an idea or event that was mentioned elsewhere. The tales in this series are not chronological and do not need to be read in any particular order. </p><p>WE THE PEOPLE (Neal & Mozzie),<br/>In order to form a more perfect union (Peter/Elizabeth/Neal),<br/>Establish justice (Peter & Neal),<br/>Insure domestic tranquility (Peter/Elizabeth/Neal),<br/>Provide for the common defense (Clinton Jones, Peter/Neal),<br/>Promote the general welfare (Mozzie),<br/>Secure the blessings of liberty for ourselves and our posterity (Peter/Elizabeth/Neal),<br/>Do ordain and establish this Constitution (Peter & Elizabeth, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We The People

**Author's Note:**

> This series was inspired by Secretsolitaire, who guessed my favorite line from “Take a Seat, Mr. Caffrey”. I offered her the fic of her choice, and she asked for something domestic, warm and angst free (but with plenty of good sex). I replied with something about a bit of “domestic tranquility.” Then I GOT AN IDEA…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what friends do for each other

“Moz…thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything. Saving my life, my sanity.”

He and Neal go back a long time, but he hasn’t always been the most reliable friend and so he’s never really hurt that Neal doesn’t fully trust him. But this … this extravagant declaration is almost more than he can bear. It implies a debt that he doesn’t want carry, it’s a marker than he’ll never be able to call. So he rubs the back of his neck, rolls his shoulders a bit and moves a pawn forward.

“Moz – are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, Neal. You thanked me. You’re welcome. Are you going to play chess or what?” Moz tries to keep the irritation out of his voice, but doesn’t succeed.

“Moz, what’s the matter?”

He looks at Neal – that beautiful face, those bright blue eyes sucking him in, and he thinks about all the times that he’s let him down. The near miss in Venice, the screw up in Prague, completely misreading the situation with the box in Copenhagen – and of course the disaster with the bonds, Neal’s arrest, his imprisonment, Kate, everything. But these past two years, he’s had the chance to redeem himself. Not that Neal ever thought he was responsible for all the messes that they’ve gotten into. But Moz knows better.

So he gives Neal a sour smile and tries to brush the whole thing off. “We’re friends, that’s what we’re supposed to do. No thanks needed.”

Neal nods his head, but he doesn’t let it go. “I don’t know what I would have done if you didn’t stand by me. Peter told me what you did afterwards … after the explosion.”

“Well, your suit is – and I hate to say it – a good man. You really should trust him…and no Zen-like excuses anymore. He’s not going to give up on you.”

“That’s actually sort of about what I want to tell you.”

Moz stares intently at the chessboard. He knows what’s coming – he’s seen it coming almost since the moment Neal told him he was working with the FBI.

“We’re sleeping together.”

“WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!??????????” This is NOT what he is expecting to hear. “I thought you were going to tell me you’re going completely legit. Not that you were having sexual relations with your FBI handler.”

“Oh, I will probably have to give up my criminal endeavors – it’s not like I’ve been terribly successful at them, anyway.”

Moz was outraged. “What do you mean, not successful?”

“Come on, Mozzie – I never got the big score. Lots of little ones, a few good ones, but nothing really, truly huge.”

“What about the Monet? The two Cezanne? The Canaletto drawings? The Antioch Manuscripts? The Vinland Map? I’d consider all of those pretty big scores.”

“And I can’t touch them. You know that. I’m sitting on a museum’s worth of art and I can’t move a single piece. Probably should give it all back at some point.” Neal smiles at him, and it’s a real smile, not the professional one that’s charmed its way across three continents. It reminds him that there’s something bigger than Neal’s desire to do the wrong thing.

“Enough with the distractions. Do you know what you’re doing – you’re having sex with The Suit.” Moz isn’t heartbroken. Bodily congress and fluids and germs and skin are getting to be a bigger turn off as the years pass, and he knows that he was never Neal’s beau ideal anyway – but The Suit?

“And what about Mrs. Suit – that very nice lady with the house and the dog and the fois gras. Don’t you think she’s going to be really pissed when she finds out you’re schtupping her husband?”

“Well, technically, he’s schtupping me, but it’s not just me and Peter.” Neal’s voice drops, and Moz holds his breath. “It’s the three of us.”

Moz’s jaw hits the table. “You and _both_ The Suits?”

“Yeah.” The wonder in Neal’s voice makes him, well, envious.

“At the same time?”

“We’re – together. And sometimes separately.”

Moz has to ask, because he knows Neal’s fatal weakness. “Are you in love with them?”

Neal blinks and his face goes blank. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can feel that anymore. But I’m happy. That’s not something I expected.”

“It’s going to be difficult. You’ve still got that piece of jewelry – and you can’t even cut it anymore. What if the other suits find out?”

“Moz – I don’t know what’s going to happen, day to day. We’ve got a lot of stuff to work out. We are people -- flawed people. There’s going to be issues. We’re discreet. And it’s not about sex – well, not all the time”

“You. The Suits. Of all people.” Moz shakes his head. “You are one lucky son of a bitch."


	2. In Order to Form a More Perfect Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stages of grief are not orderly

Something happens to Elizabeth the day she meets Neal face to face, all of the vague longings and inchoate possibilities that live within her begin to take shape. She never feels guilty about any of her fantasies, even the ones that feature her loving husband fucking other men. She’s had those since Peter told her about his sexual experimentation in college and grad school, and one of his undercover identities. Meeting Neal adds a layer of realism to her masturbation material.

When she realizes how Peter feels about Neal, and how Neal feels about Peter (even if they didn’t quite realize it themselves), she’s neither jealous nor threatened. Rather, her interior life is turned inside out, and she spends far too much time trying to get those men to the sticking point. Then her whole world goes upside down in the days and weeks after Neal tries to leave and Peter nearly goes insane from grief and guilt. When he finally tells her of his desires and she shocked him to the core with her own confession, something happened to the two of them. A million flowery analogies can’t begin describe the way their relationship strengthened in that moment, even if Neal never becomes the part of their lives that they both hope for.

It really shouldn’t have been possible, in light of conventional morality, but fuck conventional morality.

The night in March that she gives Neal a piece of her mind is another turning point. Even though Elizabeth knows it won’t be easy, and it will take time, everything she longs for is within reach. Over the next two months she and Neal talk about the problems inherent in the type of relationship they are contemplating, she talks with Peter about what her expectations are, and she hopes that Peter and Neal _try_ to talk…idiot men. It’ll be a miracle if they don’t screw it up before they get to, well, screw.

Something finally does happens on Memorial Day – they all get a little bit drunk and next thing she knows, clothes are flying, Neal is between her thighs, his mouth on her breasts, her neck, her lips, and she comes just from seeing Peter behind Neal, kissing and biting him. Bless her own taste for sodomy, because she doesn’t have to disengage to get lube for them. (She keeps a bottle is conveniently hidden under the couch cushions).

A little less than two month later, she’s got Neal’s head between her thighs, licking and nibbling and driving her insane. Peter’s behind him – like it was that first time, his thrusts pushing Neal’s face hard against her. She’s already come twice and can feel the third one building. Peter’s driving into Neal like a piece of heavy machinery, and the blade of Neal’s nose keeps hitting her clit at the perfect angle. Peter comes in a hard grunt and so does Neal, and she follows an instant later.

As she catches her breath, she watches Peter grab Neal by the hair and pull him out from her cunt. He devours Neal in a kiss, and says the unthinkable “Tell me you know she’s not Kate.”

There is a brief moment when no one moves, no one breathes. Then Neal explodes in a rage, screaming at Peter. “You fucking bastard. How dare you. HOW DARE YOU. Kate’s dead -- don’t you think I know that? I’m fucking your wife -- not Kate. I’m fucking you -- you’re not Kate. Kate’s dead and ashes, you fucking bastard.” 

She watches, frozen in horror as Neal starts to punch and hit Peter, who does nothing except try to keep Neal from hurting himself. They crash into the coffee table, sending it flying and she’s jerked out of her stasis. Neal’s flailing and screaming at Peter, beyond even rage now, his fists hitting her husband’s back and stomach, trying to cause as much damage as Peter’s callous words. She has to put a stop to it.

She runs into the kitchen and grabs the pitcher of water from the fridge and dumps it over them, as if they were wild dogs fighting. The cold liquid does its work, and all the fight goes out of Neal. Peter catches him before he collapses and they end up on the floor, Neal in his arms, sobbing. They are soaking wet and Peter’s rocking him back and forth, like a child needing comfort, saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” over and over and over again.

Kneeling naked on the damp carpet, she wraps her arms around both of them. “Don’t you think it’s time we talked about this?”

Neal’s breathing is jagged -- like a child who’s been crying hysterically and has finally calmed down. Peter isn’t much better; he’s shuddering, trying to contain his tears. Elizabeth can’t bear it. Her heart is breaking for Neal and for her husband. So much grief, so much pain. Just when you think you’ve gotten over the loss, it just comes back and knocks you down again.

“Neal, look at me.”

He tries to hide his face in Peter’s shoulder, but she’s relentless, like that night four months ago. “Look at me.” She grabs his chin and pulls his face up. “What do you think is going on here? Why do you think we’ve made you part of our lives?”

Neal is confused -- he doesn’t seem to understand her questions. “I know you want me, but I don’t know what you want _from_ me.”

“Neal, I don’t want anything from you -- I love you.”

He looks at her, and she sees fear and anguish and longing in his eyes. “After everything? How? Why?”

“Why would I not love you? Why do I need a reason?”

“Everyone has a reason, everyone wants something. Love isn’t free -- I need to know your price.”

Neal breaks free of Peter’s arms and goes to the couch. She wants to follow him, but Peter holds her back. So she retreats to the circle of her husband’s arms and watches Neal, head in his hands, trying to come to terms with what they’ve told him. Maybe it is too soon to say anything, or maybe they should have said something sooner, but now there was no turning back.

Peter finally spoke up. “There is no price, Neal. Not on our love. We -- I love you. For what you are. For whatever you choose to be. I want you to be the better – the best – person I believe you can be, but if that’s not what you want, I will still love you. Whatever choice you make, I will love you.”

He looks up, and even though he’s only a few feet away, Elizabeth feels like the distance can be measured in miles. “I want to believe you – god knows I should. You’ve never lied to me.” He pauses and scrubs his tear-stained face in his hand. “But I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know if I can love you – something inside of me is broken, and sex and companionship is not going to fix it.”

Her husband asks, “Will time?”

“Maybe. I know that I want you, and I want to be part of your lives. That hasn’t changed and I don’t think it ever will. But I can’t say _I love you_ and mean it. I can’t lie. Not now, not to you -- not ever.”

She can live with that, and so can Peter.


	3. Establish Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not quite an odd couple.

_“I’ve made a friend, Peter.” Neal wasn’t even looking at Hughes now. “Three friends, actually – Stuart Gless, and some lawyers. They dropped by June’s on Sunday, we had a nice luncheon on the terrace.”_

_Peter’s blood ran cold – the thought of Neal “making friends” with his former victim seemed wrong, somehow._

_“Seems that Gless thinks he is now in my debt, said something about his daughter’s life being worth more than any bond. He wants to help me now. He’s got a pair of high powered attorneys on retainer for me – David Boies and Ron Kuby. They are both very interested in seeing my rights protected.” To his credit, Neal didn’t seem smug or self-satisfied and held his gaze steady. “Funny how things change in the blink of an eye.”_

_From[How Long Did you Think You Could Keep This Up (Before I Found Out)](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/4967.html) _

* * *

_Six Months Later_

Peter wasn’t sure why he agreed to have lunch with Stuart Gless at Neal’s apartment.

Neal went up first, and Peter waited in June’s front parlor. Gless was prompt, the doorbell rang just as the hall clock finished chiming the hour, and Peter went to greet him.

“Agent Burke, it’s good to see you again. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me and Mr. Caffrey.”

“Mr. Gless…”

“Call me Stuart, please.”

“Stuart, I have to confess, I am more than a little troubled by your friendship with Neal. He practically ruined you and your company, and now you are providing him with top-notch legal support and you have regular lunch dates. I am not sure what you are getting out of this relationship.”

Gless seemed a bit taken aback, and Peter thought that maybe he was a bit too aggressive, too confrontational, but everything in him whispered that criminal and victim shouldn’t become friends after the crime. It had also crossed his mind that the man’s attentions to Neal could be less than honorable. If Gless did have some romantic intentions, it would be best nip to them in the bud.

“Neal Caffrey saved my daughter’s life at great personal risk. I know that you presented him with no option but to assist with the investigation, even though he knew he’d have to deal with someone that had a serious axe to grind against him. He could have run at any point, but he didn’t – he nearly got himself killed rescuing my child. That speaks to me of an extraordinary moral character. Mr. Caffrey – Neal – has paid for his earlier actions, and the help I have been able to provide to him is little enough for what he’s done for me and mine.”

Peter nodded, somewhat satisfied. “I can certainly agree with you about Caffrey’s _extraordinary moral character_.” Stuart Gless smiled at the inflection Peter put on those words. “But I don’t understand why you asked for my presence today.”

“I have a proposal for Neal and a request for you. But let’s do this over lunch.” Stuart started to walk upstairs. “I can’t get over his luck – out of prison for twenty-four hours, and Neal gets himself an apartment in one of the most exquisite private homes in Manhattan.”

“You’ve been here before?” Peter then remembered something that Neal had once told him – Gless had come for a visit with the two civil rights attorneys he had hired to represent Neal.

Neal was waiting for them at the top of the staircase, his face unreadable, and the three of them went out onto the terrace where lunch had been laid out by June’s staff. Peter sat next to Neal, and moved his chair closer than custom and manners dictated.

They made small talk through the meal and Peter forced himself to stay patient. Neal asked about Lindsey, and Stuart waxed enthusiastic about his daughter’s college prospects. Her kidnapping and rescue seemed to have sparked an interest law and justice. As Peter poured the last of the wine into their glasses, the man finally came to the point of the meeting.

“I want to petition the court on Neal’s behalf for the commutation of the balance of his sentence and the restoration of his civil liberties.”

Of all the things that Peter expected to be discussed today, this was probably the very last thing he could think of. He looked over at Neal, who seemed equally surprised.

Stuart continued. “I had originally thought to file a request for a pardon with the President, but that will take too many years to achieve the same thing. Apparently, the Pardon Office won’t consider the application until five years after the original sentence has been completed. Commutation by the court is a better road for Neal and it would greatly help if I had a written recommendation from you, Agent Burke – as the arresting case agent and now, his handler.”

Neal’s responded before Peter could finish wrapping his brain around this development. “Stu – why? I more than appreciate your friendship and the help you’ve given me, but this seems above and beyond any debt between us.”

“Don’t you want to be a free man?” Neal’s obvious reluctance was certainly a surprise to Stuart, but not to Peter.

“Of course I do – the jewelry is uncomfortable, and I’d like to be able to go to New Jersey every once in a while…” The three men chuckled at the thought of Neal in Jersey. “But there are things that make that problematic.”

“Such as?”

Peter caught Neal’s eye, and took over the conversation. “What I am going to tell you needs to be kept in absolute confidence. There’s could be a certain amount of danger to you having this information.” Peter paused, letting Stuart make up his mind.

“You’re serious? Neal’s in trouble?” Stuart looked at Neal, who nodded in agreement.

“I am sorry I couldn’t tell you, but Peter’s right. You could be in danger if you tried to help.”

Gless seemed torn between his security and his curiosity. “Tell me. It won’t leave this place, I promise.”

Peter summarized the problem. “Neal has, for reasons we still don’t know, attracted the interest of some powerful and corrupt people that have been operating within the FBI. We don’t know who they are, but they’ve tried to control him once, and someone ended up murdered. We’re trying to get to the bottom of this, and the best way to keep Neal safe is to have him on that tracker and working with me.” He casually draped an arm over the back of Neal’s chair.

Gless’ eyes went wide at the mention of murder, but he comprehended the dilemma. “If Neal’s sentence is commuted, he loses the anklet, his consulting gig and the protection that working with the FBI gives him.” He paused to think for a moment. “Can I help? Maybe if I let Ron loose on this, he’ll be able to kick over enough rocks to expose your corrupt agents.”

Neal answered. “We – Peter and I – talked about it. It’s not a good idea. These men have an agenda, and I need to find out what it is. Someone dear to me – someone I once loved – was killed by them, and I have to find out why.”

Stuart nodded. “I understand completely. You want to see justice served.”

Both Peter and Neal responded simultaneously, “Yes”.

“When you do get this resolved, I want to move forward on the commutation. You shouldn’t have to have the threat of re-incarceration hanging over you. I know that Ron and David have been able to alleviate most of that issue, but it just isn’t right that no matter how much good you do, you’re still at risk. This is a terrible injustice.”

Peter sighed. Gless was clearly seeing Neal as a romantic hero. “At this point, there is little likelihood of that. Neal has some very strong partisans in the office now, particularly since your daughter’s rescue. My boss, Hughes – for one, would probably go to the wall for Neal.”

Neal looked at Peter in surprise. Peter just smirked and patted Neal’s hand, and he saw Gless’ eyes narrow.

“Can I ask you – both of you a question?”

Peter nodded and Neal replied with a smile and a shrug – a patented Caffrey gesture if there was one.

“What’s going on between the two of you?”

Neal froze, but Peter calmly picked up his wine glass and finished the contents. “What do you think is going on?” He was expecting this question. He had all but stamped “MINE” on Neal’s forehead since the start of lunch.

Stuart was startled by Peter’s casual reply, but persisted, anger coloring his voice. “I think you’re involved in a sexual relationship with Neal.” He turned to Neal. “If this isn’t consensual – if Agent Burke is abusing you and his authority – let me help you. For all you know, he may be part of the problem you’ve told me.”

Neal shook his head and smiled. “If anything, Stu – I’m the one who’s taking advantage of Peter. I could ruin his life and his career with one wrong move.”

Gless wasn’t satisfied and rounded on Peter, who was still sitting back, a small smile on his face. “You – you’re a married man. Don’t your vows mean anything – or is your wife just a beard.”

“My wife enjoys all benefits of a plural marriage.”

Stuart blinked, working through what Peter just said. “I don’t follow.”

“We are polyamorous.”

Stuart still seemed lost.

Neal just cut to the chase. _“Ménage à trois.”_

The light dawned, and the stunned expression on Stuart Gless’ face was the personification of speechlessness


	4. Insure Domestic Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y – Yeah!

When Peter was a boy, rainy Saturdays sucked.

Now, though – rainy Saturdays are meant for lazing in bed, particularly after a Friday night like the one he just enjoyed. He and Neal were at the office late, and not necessarily working. It still amuses him how much Neal gets turned on by his bifocals, and he’s a little appalled at his own reaction to putting the handcuffs on his lover and seeing him get out of them time and time again. The near-miss with Hughes saying goodnight, and Neal in that deliciously submissive position under his desk lead to some hard play at the office and then at home

El got back from her event late, but not so late that she missed seeing him using a crop on Neal’s buttocks. They had fun, the three of them, taking turns with it. But that’s not how he really likes to define their relationship – it’s so much more than sex games and toys and playing out kinky fantasies (and there’s quite a bit of that, most of it at El’s instigation).

No, what defines what they have are the moments like this – the rainy Saturday mornings – these domestic moments. Waking up with morning wood, a warm, beautiful wife on one side, a warm, beautiful … _husband_ … on the other. This is what’s best in life.

Peter stretches and reaches for his spouses, but both the husband and the wife are missing. He opens his eyes, disappointed. The light’s on in the bathroom and he hears the back door slide shut.

_Ahhh, this is really what’s best. Someone else to let the dog out on a rainy Saturday morning._

The wife emerges from the bathroom, hair brushed and wearing nothing but an old tee shirt of his, which should not have been at all sexy, but it was – maybe because it was so easy to remove. She straddles him and he kisses her, enjoying the mint taste of toothpaste. He probably should get up and brush his own teeth.

“Ugh…morning breath, dear.”

Peter rolls out from under El and head for the bathroom. The husband’s beaten him to the sink and they jockey a bit for position. Neal gets in front after squeezing his butt, which is still sore from last night’s play with the crop. That's fine for him, since he likes leaning into Neal’s back. And his ass.

They brush, spit and rinse, and Neal gives him privacy to piss and wash up.

When Peter gets back to the bedroom, he’s got a choice _(and everyone should be faced with such a choice at least once in his life)_ – who gets to be in the middle? El solves his dilemma by climbing over a naked Neal, who is stretched out over half the bed.

Peter strips. “So, it’s going to be an Elizabeth sandwich this morning?” She just smiles at him.

He gets back into bed, spooning against her, cupping her breasts in his hands, his erection sliding slowly between her buttocks.

Neal lies facing her, and Peter watches as they kiss – a dreamy pas de deux of lips and tongues. Neal’s fingers gently cup her cheek, her hands fluttering through his hair, coming to rest on his shoulders like two white doves. She gasps when Peter scuffs her nipples with the pads of his thumbs, then pinches and rolls those two hard points, and Neal takes advantage, swallowing her breath, deepening his kiss.

Peter is, as always, enthralled by the two of them. El and Neal kissing is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, there is a perfection to them that makes something within him burst with joy, each and every time. He doesn’t wonder about it, or worry about it. Neal breaks off their kiss and reaches up for him, eyes shining, and he kisses him, then El and suddenly the bed becomes a sea of moving arms and legs and thighs and he’s surrounded by soft skin and muscle and bone and breasts. In a rush of breath, El’s crouching over him, sliding down his cock, lightly keening her satisfaction. She sits up and Neal’s now behind her, parting her labia, stroking her clit in time with her strokes.

The weight of the two of them keeps his hips pinned to the bed, so Peter lets El ride both him and Neal, who must have his own cock tucked in between her buttocks. He claws at the sheets as his orgasm rises, but he holds it until El reaches her own climax. Her body clenches around him and he erupts within her. Through the pounding of his heart, he hears Neal’s shout of completion.

The rain pounds against the bedroom window and they fall into a sweaty tangle of limbs, sinking easily back into dreamless sleep.


	5. Provide for the Common Defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace under fire.

I’m surprised by how much I like Neal Caffrey. When Peter told me that he was going to bring Caffrey on as a consultant, I worried. The guy had a reputation as a serious charmer, and I wondered if it just might be possible that the boss had been conned by a master -- for about thirty seconds. No one get anything over on Special Agent Peter Burke. He is, hands down, the smartest man I’ve ever met (except when it comes to making a pot of coffee).

But Neal is in a class by himself. Smart doesn’t even begin to describe him, nor does charming. The man has something – class, charisma, intelligence barely covers it – _je ne sais quoi_ is probably the best way to put it. And he’s got the strongest (and strangest) sense of honor I’ve ever come across in a civilian. Hell, with few exceptions, maybe in the Bureau.

Watching Peter and Neal is like seeing two sides of the same coin at once. They’re like an old married couple, completing each other’s sentences. Even their bickering was easy, familiar, right from the start. I should have resented how smoothly Neal slipped into the office routine, but it’s so hard not to like him. Sometimes, he’s like a damn puppy dog, all he wants to do is please Peter.

Neal does have some interesting quirks, though. The thing with the guns is downright strange. He makes a big deal about how intelligent criminals don’t need to use guns, but I don’t think he even fully buys that line. There’s something else going on. Peter told me about Neal’s expertise with a shotgun at Avery Phillips’ place, how he locked and fired in a single, effortless motion, hitting the target not once, but twice. Trap shooting isn’t a sport you can fake, and for someone who says he “isn’t a gun guy” it sounds like he’s pretty good with them.

There are all sorts of facilities at the FBI offices here in lower Manhattan that most civilians don’t know about. Of course there are several gyms, basketball courts, racquetball and squash courts (relics from the ‘90s), our own Starbucks and a gun range. Yeah, a place to shoot. Who’d have thought a building full of law enforcement professionals would have a gun range? (That’s sarcasm, in case you couldn’t tell).

Neal was a little freaked out the first time he heard about the range. Why? I haven’t the slightest clue – but it seemed to bother him more than being around dozens of agents who carried (sometimes more than one piece). I tried to tell him that in an office building filled with FBI agents who need to frequently recertify their weapons qualifications, the shooting range was an essential, not a luxury. He really didn’t want to hear it.

Truth is that most FBI agents, like most cops, will go their entire career without having to draw their weapons in an offensive situation. And I’ll say that’s particularly true for those of us in the White Collar division. We deal with financial crimes – non-violent stuff, but lately there’s been a string of cases, usually involving our Number One anti-gun guy, that have had almost the entire team clearing leather at least once.

Anyway, I digress.

This afternoon, Diana, Neal and I went to lunch at the new Vietnamese place on Water Street, Peter declined (he's really not an adventurous eater). We got back, and as always, the first place Neal looks when he comes in is Peter’s office. I have to tell you, it’s the strangest thing. If Peter’s not there, Neal doesn’t ask where he is, but inevitably, someone will tell him within five minutes.

Today was no different. Peter was out and the old man, Hughes – of all people, came down out of his office and not-so-casually mentioned that the boss was on the range practicing for his quarterly recert. I think he wanted to see Neal’s reaction, and he wasn’t disappointed. The man’s face got this scrunched-up look, like he just tasted something bad, and Hughes pounced on it. I’m sure he had the whole thing planned. He gave Neal a quiet but intense lecture (in typical Hughes fashion) about the importance of the proper use and training in firearms. Neal sat there, didn’t say a word until Hughes finished.

Neal agreed with Hughes, but he couched it in a polite, empty way. It was obvious that he didn’t care what Hughes was saying, but was too tactful to say so. Hughes knew he was being played by a master, but didn’t let it go. Very strange. It wasn’t as if Neal could carry. He’s a convicted felon, he can’t carry or own a handgun, and let’s not even consider that he’s out on parole. Normally, Hughes barely gives Neal the time of day, but he agrees that the guy’s an asset for the department and he doesn’t interfere with Peter’s handling (well, most of the time he doesn’t). Then Hughes mentioned Neal’s little performance during the boiler room case, and you can see it coming from a mile away.

“You once said you know how to use a gun. Were you just talking about shotguns or can you use a handgun too?”

It was amazing how cold the guy’s face got. He knew what Hughes was doing to him, and I held my breath, wondering how Caffrey was going to answer.

“I’m not a gun guy. You know that. But I can use a handgun. When I have to.”

If his face was cold, his voice was like ice. But Hughes kept after him. It wasn’t needling, Hughes was too good an agent to do that, but he was just persistent, relentless. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why the old man was doing this.

“I want to see how good you really are.”

Neal looked at me. I couldn’t offer him any help with this, and he got no help from Diana either. Hughes was our bosses’ boss, and if he said jump, all we could do was ask is “how high.”

Neal snapped at last. “Fine – let’s all go down to the range and see what the FBI’s trick pony can do. Whose semi-automatic can I borrow?”

Hughes offered Neal his SIG Sauer P226, which I was surprised he still carried. The Bureau has been phasing out the SIGs for the last few years, but the old man has so much time in that they probably would let him keep it until his retirement. I asked him if he’d prefer my Glock-22, but Neal said he’d use the SIG, and we – Neal, Hughes, Diana and I – all trooped to the elevator and downstairs to the gun range.

Just as we were signing in, Peter came out. I didn’t want to be the one to tell him that Neal was going to go onto the range. I didn’t have to – Hughes was there, and Peter didn’t say anything. I wondered if this whole thing was set up between the two of them, but then I saw Peter’s face, and he was angry – as angry as I’ve ever seen the man.

Neal put on that tight, fake smile and asked me to hold his tie and vest -- saying that he didn’t want them to stink of gunpowder. I was surprised he didn’t strip down to his undershirt, but I kept my mouth shut. The range instructor was surprised by the visit, we weren’t on the roster. Hughes pulled the man aside and they got into a heated discussion. The instructor probably didn’t like the idea of a civilian firing a weapon on his range.

They came back, and the instructor set out some rules for Neal. “I want to see that you know how to handle a gun before I let you shoot on my range.” Hughes handed Neal the pistol, and he quickly and efficiently went through the standard checks, ejecting the cartridge and checking it, replacing it, chambering a round with the slide and turning the safety off. His posture and gun position were perfect, and it looked like he handled a pistol on a daily basis. The instructor nodded his approval.

“How far and how many rounds?”

Hughes asked him for five strings of two rounds each at twenty-five yards. He obliged, firing with a standard two-handed grip, de-cocking after each string. Neal was finished in less than a minute, and he ejected the magazine and unchambered the remaining round just as efficiently. I didn’t doubt that Neal had placed most of his shots; he knew what he was doing as much as he hated doing it. The instructor gave a whistle when he pulled down the target – eight of the ten shots were dead center, the ninth was in the head area and the tenth in the lower quadrant. Neal definitely had been trained, and from the looks of it, by a professional.

 

Neal didn’t even glance at the target. He put the gun down and just walked out. Diana followed him, grabbing his vest and tie from me. I started to leave the range, but the conversation between Peter and Hughes stopped me just as I was walking out the door.

_"Damn it, Reese. I told you this wasn’t necessary.”_

_“Peter, I have to disagree with you. I need to know – for your safety and the safety of your team – that Caffrey isn’t a liability in the field."_

_“It’s not like he’s ever going to be issued a weapon."_

_“You and I both know that that’s not the point – you can’t keep putting Neal out there without knowing how he’ll react in a team situation that goes south. I won’t have you risking yourself and your agents if Neal’s going to leave you exposed or vulnerable.”_

_“You’re wrong, Reese – you’ve seen how he handles himself. Hell, wasn’t his work on the Gless kidnapping enough to prove that?”_

_“I agree with you that Caffrey handled himself exceptionally well in a difficult situation, but that’s not what I wanted to see. He could have missed the target completely, and I’d have been satisfied. The Gless case, the boiler room sting, he was working solo, not a part of the unit operation.”_

_“So you goaded him into doing something he detests?”_

_“Yes, I did. You keep integrating him into field ops, there’s going to come a point where he’s going to have to do what needs to be done to protect the lives of his team members, his own personal likes and dislikes aside. And that may just mean picking up a weapon and firing it. You’ve also got to consider what’s hanging over both your heads…”_

My luck ran out at that point. Peter saw me standing in the doorway (thank god, Hughes had his back to me) and he gestured sharply with his head for me to leave.

When I got back up to the department, I saw Diana standing outside the men’s room, holding Neal’s vest and tie.

“You have to go in there; I think he’s being sick.” Times like this, I am doubly grateful that Cruz was reassigned and Diana was back. I couldn’t see Lauren caring enough to hang around to check if Neal needed help.

Sure enough, Neal was retching over a bowl. I didn’t say anything, but just held his head until he stopped. He got up and went over to the sinks. The poor guy looked like death warmed over. He pulled off his shirt and his undershirt and started bathing from the faucet, scrubbing up his hands and forearms like a doctor going into surgery. In my own experience, I didn’t find that ten pistol shots left that much of a noticeable smell of gunpowder – but probably it does if you have a serious dislike of firearms.

I caught Neal’s eye in the mirror. “I’ve got a spare shirt if you want.”

He nodded and I left him in the bathroom. Diana was still standing watch, her eyes full of questions. “I’ll tell you later” I mouthed at her.

I got Neal the shirt, a tube of toothpaste, a fresh toothbrush, a bottle of water, and a clean towel from my gym bag. As I headed back to the men's room, Peter and Hughes were coming out of the elevator. Peter was still blisteringly angry and Hughes looked like he always does, slightly dyspeptic. From the expression on Peter’s face when he saw me, I knew he was going to order me to forget what I overheard.

I took Neal’s tie and vest from Diana and went back into the men’s room and found Neal still at the sink, face, arms and torso dripping wet. I handed him the towel and after he dried off, the water bottle, toothbrush and toothpaste. Of course, my shirt was too big, but once he tucked it in, put on his vest and tie, you couldn’t tell. It was odd, watching him dress – it was like he was rebuilding himself, piece by piece. By the time he ran his hands through his slightly damp hair, it was as if nothing ever happened.

“Jones … thank you.”

All I could say was “You’re welcome.”

We went back into the office, Diana and I flanking Neal like some sort of honor guard. Hughes was waiting at the top of the steps, and in his typical fashion, he pointed and gestured for Neal to come to his office. Diana and I made no pretense of working; we just stood there and watched – one of the few benefits of working in a fishbowl. Peter hovered inches from Neal’s shoulder (that’s something Diana and I do have to discuss), Neal stood with his hands behind his back, like a soldier on parade (that, too) and Hughes sat at his desk, presumably talking to Neal. After a few minutes, the old man got up and held out his hand to Neal.

It seemed like an eternity, but Neal accepted the handshake and then left Hughes’ office. I figured he’d make a beeline for Peter’s but he came back downstairs and settled at his usual desk. I watched him work – and he was working, not pretending – for a half-hour or so, until Diana grabbed me. I guess she couldn’t wait any longer to find out what I knew. We went over to the archive section for privacy and all I would tell her was that the old man had a reason for doing what he did to Neal (not that I agreed with it – but it’s not like it’s my call, one way or the other). By time we got back to the bullpen, Neal was in the conference room, and Peter was looking for us.

“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern – nice of you to join us.”

In the conference room, Neal had diagrammed something on the whiteboard that looked like a multi-layered Ponzi scheme had mated with the mathematical equations for a geosynchronous orbit. Turned out it was the solution to a case that had been sitting cold for nearly a year. Everyone in the office had taken a crack at it, including Hughes. We all knew that something was wrong, but there was seemingly no way to prove it.

Listening to Neal explain the complex scam, I couldn’t help but think that this was the definition of grace under fire.


	6. Promote the General Welfare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just Because You’re Paranoid, Doesn’t Mean That They’re Not Out To Get You.

_1991, A Major New York City Law Firm, World Trade Center, North Tower_

“Hey there, Zuckerman!”

Moz gritted his teeth – he hated people just showing up at his office unannounced. Didn’t they know that’s what secretaries were for, to make appointments?

“What do you want, Brad?”

“It’s Chad.”

Moz knew that, of course. He seriously disliked _Chad_ , with his perfectly coiffed blond hair, five hundred dollar double-breasted Brooks Brothers suit, paisley braces, matching tie and pocket square, the flat abs and perfect posture. _Charles Edward Bennington V_ , fellow graduate of Harvard Law, Class of ’87. No brains, all GQ looks and a pedigree that went back to the Mayflower. The moron never had to work a day in his life, and he rarely ever did.

“As I said, what do you want, _Chad_?”

“Listen, I need a favor.”

“Don’t you always” Moz muttered under his breath.

“I need you to fill in for me on a pro bono thing, a preliminary hearing for some idiot down in the Tombs. The Old Man’s gone on an altruism kick, and is having all of the second year associates _‘do some good”_.” Chad snorted, as if the concept of doing good was something too ludicrous to take seriously.

“I’m a patent lawyer – I know nothing about New York criminal procedure.”

“Come on, Zuck, you took Crim Pro – we were in the same class. Don’t you remember any of it?”

He hated when people called him “Zuck.” Back in high school, as a perennially over-achieving and undersized nerd, the stupid meatheads would taunt him with _“Zuck Sucks.”_ And the only thing worse than being called Zuck was when someone used his full first name, “Mozart.”

“No, I don’t.”

“What about Bar Review?”

“It’s been four years – do you really expect me to remember?”

“You’ve always bragged about a photographic memory, Zuck. Really, can’t you run up to Centre Street and do this for me? The hearing’s set for 3 pm, but I’m heading out of town – my flight’s at 4:30.”

Moz seriously considered the request. The thought of some poor schmuck relying on Chad for representation made his skin crawl. The guy was a mental defective; it took him five tries to pass the Bar. Everyone knew that the only reason he got into Harvard was his family connections, and if it not for the fact that his grandfather’s name was on the firm’s letterhead, he’d be out on his ass. “Give me the file.”

“Zuck – you’re a lifesaver.” Chad dropped the folder on his desk and practically ran out of his office.

Moz called out after him, “Don’t call me Zuck.”

The case seemed pretty straight forward, Amid Wali Yassir, 22 years old and a graduate student in chemistry at Columbia was picked up during a routine sweep of the Morningside Heights area. He had just enough marijuana in his pocket to put him over the legal limit for a personal use charge in New York. The amount he was carrying meant a three-year sentence, minimum under the distribution laws. But since it was the kid’s first arrest, Moz thought there was no reason why he couldn’t get him off with a fine.

At the Centre Street court house, he waited for his client to be delivered, but after two hours and multiple inquiries with less-than-forthcoming bailiffs, no one could give him a reason why the kid wasn’t made available for his own hearing. When he went to the Criminal Parts to request an extension, he was told that the matter wasn’t even on the docket.

_Typical – Chad can’t even get the date of the hearing right, and I’m an idiot for not double checking the scheduling order._

But Chad was right – the scheduling order had the preliminary evidentiary hearing set for today at 3 pm. Moz walked across the street to the Manhattan Detention Center Complex, hoping to find out just what was going on. But all he got was a bigger headache. The desk had Yassir listed as a detainee, but couldn’t locate him in the new computer system. A search for his client’s arrest records and finger prints came up empty, but there was a record for the request for a Public Defender, and a copy of the fax noting that the case had been assigned to Moz’s firm for pro bono work. Henkley, the assistant warden that Moz was dealing with, was concerned by the inconsistencies – prisoners weren’t just supposed to disappear. They interviewed two of the corrections officers who were on duty when Yassir was brought in, and both remembered seeing the kid and feeling sorry for him – too young and too pretty to be stuck in a cell with hardened criminals, but since they both went off shift shortly afterward, they couldn’t tell Moz what – if anything – had happened. Henkley reluctantly agreed to follow up with him, after interviewing the guards on the next shift.

The next day came and went, and then it was the weekend. Moz got a call from Henkley on Monday, but the information was disturbing. One of the night shift guards remembers seeing Yassir taken from his cell and never brought back, and he didn’t recognize the corrections officers who had escorted the young man. He had checked the official visitors log and there was a replaced page in the binder – someone had signed in, then whited out the signature, photocopied the page and took the original. Henkley told Moz that the only time that happened was when the visit needs to be kept off the record. Since he valued his job over some stupid mope, he wasn’t going to dig any further.

Moz knew he should probably drop it. He wasn’t a criminal lawyer, he was only filling in, but this disappearance troubled him. He went to check out the kid’s dorm room at Columbia – hoping to talk with his roommate, but that was another frightening dead end. He didn’t have a roommate, but the kids across the hall said that a couple of men in dark suits came and removed everything from the room the day he had been arrested. Yassir was on a student visa from Jordan, so there was no family to follow up with, at least in the U.S.

A check with Immigration confirmed his status, and there was no record of detainment or deportation. When he followed up at the end of the week, INS told him that there was no record of any Amid Wali Yassir in the U.S. on a student visa attending Columbia University.

Moz became obsessed with finding the kid. People weren’t supposed to just vanish into the system. He neglected his own work, spending his days following up leads, calling and faxing and badgering the NYC Corrections Department, the criminal court system, and trying to get the police to investigate, but no one was interested in the fate of some stupid foreign kid who got busted for pot. Even the dorm mates at Columbia – the ones who told him about the men in suits emptying the apartment changed their stories. After two months of fruitless, heartbreaking work, all he had was a folder three inches thick with notes and no leads. If it wasn’t for the copy of the arrest record and mug shot in the file that Chad had given him, there would be no proof that Amid Wali Yassir ever existed.

At first, he thought he was just being paranoid when it seemed that someone was following him home. After all, there are a lot of people who work on Wall Street and live in the West Village. Moz took to keeping the file with him at all times, and put a photocopy of it in a safe deposit box. Then he kept hearing clicks on his home phone line, and the second line light on the office phone kept blinking on and off. He called a buddy from his MIT days, and they did a sweep of his apartment. Not only was his phone tapped, there were listening devices in every single room.

The morning after they yanked out the bugs, he was greeted at the office by two men in dark suits and escorted to an empty office in a deserted corridor. A third man was waiting. Moz sat down, carefully keeping his briefcase between his legs. “Who are you?”

The man ignored his question. “You are Mozart Oscar Zuckerman?”

“Yes”

“Interesting name, Mozart…”

He winced. “My mother like classical music, my father was more of a show tunes fan.”

The suits laughed. Moz shivered. He asked again. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“You’ve been looking into the whereabouts of Amid Wali Yassir, chemistry student at Columbia, correct?”

Moz didn’t answer.

“We know what you’ve been doing, who you’ve been talking to, and pretty much everything you know.”

“You’ve been tapping my phone. That’s illegal – you can’t do that without a warrant.”

“Oh, we have a warrant.”

“How the hell can you get a warrant without probable cause, a hearing – I’m entitled to representation! Don’t you know about the Fourth Amendment – unlawful search and seizure?”

“Actually, Mr. Zuckerman, we got the warrant for these documents and the taps on your phones under the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act. None of that Fourth Amendment nonsense applies.”

“I’m going to do you a favor and let you end this here. You turn over your papers, you agree to drop the matter and your life goes on without interruption. I understand you’re a very successful patent attorney – on partner track here. You wouldn’t want to ruin that, would you? Your friends have busy and successful lives too.”

Moz broke into a cold sweat at the implied threat. “Why are you doing this?”

“You don’t need to know.” At that, the man opened a folder and slid it over to him. It was copies of the copies he had made and put into the safety deposit box.

“We have everything.”

In a fit of bravado, Moz snapped back “Everything except the originals.”

One of suits yanked back his chair, and the other grabbed his briefcase and pulled out his file.

“Now we have the originals. Be smart. Drop this, _Mozart_ and forget you ever met us.”

He watched, frightened and nauseous as the three men just walked out, taking all of the evidence with them.

Moz didn’t know how long he sat in that empty office, but at some point he went to the bathroom and vomited until he sank to the floor, exhausted from the dry heaves. There was no way he could go on here. His life was over. There was no one he could trust, no one he could turn to without compromising their safety. He’d heard about guys that went off the grid, became untraceable. That’s what he needed to do. It wasn’t as if anyone would miss him. Izzy was long gone – probably somewhere in the Gulf shacking up with a jet jockey. As if they were ever really meant to be together anyway. Mom was dead; Dad was on his fourth or fifth wife and couldn’t even remember his firstborn’s name.

It was surprisingly easy to leave the firm. His work in the past few months had suffered badly, and his attitude has been even worse. They were grateful enough for his departure that they cut him his final check, plus his full bonus right then and there. Moz didn’t bother to collect any of the stuff from his office – not the framed diplomas or bar certificates or copies of the articles he’d published.

His apartment was almost as easy to leave. All he took were some clothes, the photos of his mother, and of him and Izzy, his grandfather’s chess set and two favorite novels. Everything else could be replaced. He dumped the keys through the super’s mail slot with a note that he wouldn’t be back, ever and he didn’t give a fuck about the security deposit.

Once he cashed his last paycheck, liquidated his portfolio and emptied his bank account, Mozart Oscar Zuckerman was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in May, 2010, and of course has been thoroughly jossed by canon. But in some alternate universe, I still think this is a plausible backstory.


	7. And Secure the Blessings of Liberty to Our Selves and Our Posterity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Slobber Coated Tennis Ball Is Not The Worst Thing You Could Dream About

"Can I ask you a very personal question?" Neal and Peter where sitting on the deck in the backyard, watching Satchmo chase after the tennis ball Neal kept throwing. The question wasn’t an idle one, but something Neal had been wondering about for a long time. He and Peter had been through a lot over the past five years, and now that his own heart was settled, some things were niggling at the back of his brain. And some other things he’d recently noticed.

Satchmo dropped the ball at their feet, and Neal picked it up, and instantly regretted it. It was coated in dog slobber and dead leaf matter. He quickly tossed it away, and watched the lab amble after it.

“You keep throwing it, he’ll just keep bringing it back. That’s what retrievers do, you know.”

“Yeah, but he gives me that look, how can I not play?”

Satchmo came back, dropped the ball again, and Neal obliged him one more time.

“So, what’s your very personal question?”

Suddenly, Neal was uncomfortable. He felt like he was venturing into something he had no business knowing. “Never mind.”

"Come on Neal, ask away."

Neal sighed, and finally asked, "Why haven't you and Elizabeth had kids? Sorry - I shouldn’t have asked. It’s really not my business."

Peter didn’t look wasn't upset at the question. “Why wouldn’t it be not your business, you’re part of this family.” Peter grimaced, “Actually, I am surprised it’s taken you so long to ask. We’ve been getting that question from friends and family for almost as long as we’ve been married.”

“Well, you two have such a strong marriage – the lack of offspring is unusual.”

“Maybe our marriage is strong because we don’t have to deal with kids?”

Neal gritted his teeth, “Do you know how much I hate when you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That – answer a question with a question.”

“And here, I thought that was one of the things you loved about me.”

“Are you going to answer or just play word games with me?”

“It’s complicated, and it’s not an easy subject to discuss.”

“You don’t have to, let’s forget I ever asked.”

“No, you have the right to know.” Peter paused, and scrubbed at his eyes. "My father had Huntington’s Disease."

At Neal's puzzled expression, Peter explained. "Huntington's is a genetic illness, children of a parent with the disease have a fifty percent chance of having the mutation that causes the disease and if they do, there is an absolute probability of developing it. It’s one hundred percent fatal and there is no cure."

This was not the answer Neal was expecting. He went hot, then cold and everything inside him tightened up, like the start of a panic attack. "You are going to die?"

"We all die eventually, Neal. But no, I won't die from Huntington's. I had the test a few years ago, and the results were negative for the defective gene."

The tightness eased up immediately. "So, you don't want to pass it onto any children you might have." Satchmo dropped the ball at Neal’s feet and he ignored it, too interested in what Peter was telling him to play anymore.

"Actually, I can't. If I don't have the mutation, the disease won't be passed to any children."

"Then why no kids?"

"My father died in '88, it was a slow, awful death. I didn't want to my kids to inherit it."

"Peter, you're confusing me...you just said that you couldn't pass it onto your children."

"Sorry – it's not something easy to talk about. After my father was diagnosed, I didn't want to get tested, I didn't want to live knowing I was going to die, slowly, badly. But I also didn't want to risk passing it on to posterity, so I had a vasectomy when I was in college. I had the surgeon make sure it was non-reversible."

Neal blinked, trying to absorb the information Peter had given him. "Why did you finally get tested?"

Peter shook his head, ruefully. "I got the flu one winter, a few months after I nearly caught you in Prague. It wouldn't go away, and the weakness lingered for too long. I thought that the disease was setting in, and I couldn’t take not knowing anymore. The DNA results were conclusive; I don’t have the genetic mutation. I will not develop Huntington’s Disease.”

“Elizabeth knows?”

“Of course she does. When things got serious, I told her. I had to know if she could deal with what could happen, and the fact that I couldn’t, wouldn’t give her children. It was one of the hardest things I ever did. I was prepared for her to just get up and walk away. She didn’t cry, she didn’t give me any platitudes or assurances or start babying me, as if I was already sick.”

“I tried to tell her how bad it could get – my father lingered in pain and dementia for fifteen years until he got an infection and died. It was the worst thing you could ever imagine. He went from a kind, loving man – a history teacher, a Little League baseball coach – to an angry, confused, bitter, weak stranger in about a year.” Peter rubbed at his eyes, wiping at the tears of his memories. “Elizabeth didn’t care that the future could possibly hold nothing but misery. She told me she loved me, and that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me, however long that life would be.”

“Wait a second, Elizabeth proposed to you?” Neal laughed in amazement. “I knew there was a reason why I loved that woman.”

Peter smirked. “She beat me by a few minutes; I already had the ring in my pocket.”

Satchmo nudged at Neal’s hand, looking to get him interested in their game again, and Neal idly scratched behind the dog’s floppy ears.

“So you’re not going to get sick and die on me, old man?”

Peter smiled and stared out into the middle distance. “No, not from Huntington’s, but there are no guarantees on anything else. But I don’t think you’ve asked me about this out of idle curiosity. That’s not you – every question has a purpose. What gives?”

Neal didn’t really know how to blunt the impact of his next question. “Have you noticed anything odd about Elizabeth in the mornings, lately?” Peter wasn’t the most observant person, when it came to his wife, but he wondered how he could be missing the obvious.

He was. “No … What are you saying?”

“Elizabeth’s rushed out of bed, into the bathroom every morning for the past week. Her breasts are bigger, more sensitive and her nipples have turned red. She got queasy last night from the eggplant parmesan.”

“It was greasy.”

“Peter – we’ve had sex, the three of us, every night for over a month.”

“Neal?”

He didn’t answer. There was no need.

“Elizabeth!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Elizabeth, Elizabeth, wake up!”

El, honey - you’re having a bad dream. Wake up.

Elizabeth Burke opened her eyes, blinking warily in semi-darkness. Peter and Neal were leaning over her, twin expressions of concern on their faces.

Peter said, perhaps unnecessarily, “You were having a nightmare.”

She grabbed his shoulder. “Did we have eggplant parmesan for dinner last night?”

Neal answered. “No, you hate eggplant. We brought in Thai.”

“One of you, turn on a light.” Peter obliged as she sat up.

Elizabeth cupped her palms around her breasts and squeezed gently. She sighed in relief, no tenderness. “Do these seem any bigger to you?” Her hands were still on her tits, holding them out like an offering. Both Peter and Neal grinned at the sight.

“No, they look as perfectly sized as always.” Neal, ever gallant, truthfully replied.

“And my nipples, have they changed color?”

“Hard to tell in this light, hon – I may need to get closer.” Peter leaned in and captured one between his lips. A quick nip and he released it. “Hmmm, still tastes pink.”

She swatted him. “How’s your father, Peter?”

Peter blinked at the non sequitur. “El, you know he’s fine. You spoke to him last week – before he and my mother left for their cruise.”

She looked at Neal, or more precisely, at Neal’s left ankle. The hard plastic cuff was still there, the green light glowing steadily.

There was one more thing to check to fully convince her that her dream was just that, a dream. But she wasn’t going to run over to the drug store at 3:30 in the morning to get a pregnancy test.


	8. Do Ordain and Establish This Constitution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth wants what she wants, and will stop at nothing to get it.

One would think that rules would be needed, boundaries proclaimed, limitations established. But in truth, nothing of the kind was required in the Burke-Caffrey relationship.

Of course there were problems – Neal was an emotional minefield and there were days that Peter seemed to be deliberately trying to step on unexploded ordnance. They were also dealing with OPR, Mentor and Peter’s professional paranoia. But perhaps the success of their unique situation came down to one thing, or more accurately, one person.

Elizabeth Burke.

She was, for all intents and purposes, the adult in the relationship – at least when it came to emotions. She bullied them, comforted them, gave them the space they needed but never, ever hesitated to take what she wanted, when she wanted it.

She knew that Peter was always slightly terrified of her. Oh, not in a pussy-whipped sort of way, but in the way that most strong men will cower in the face of true feminine magic. Neal was terrified of her too – for the same reason, and for others. Despite his own words and her assurances, he had trouble believing that she didn’t mind sharing her very good life with him, and maybe more importantly, sharing Peter. If he wasn’t so traumatized, his eagerness to please would have almost been too adorable.

She knew that every time that Neal and Peter made love, she would be rewarded. Not precisely guilt-gifts – but Neal’s way of telling her that he understood his place. If Neal and Peter spent an evening at his apartment, the next night, she was his absolute focus. He never assumed and never took anything for granted. It wasn’t that Neal was submissive, far from it – he was just anxious to ensure that he was never a threat to her relationship with Peter.

Of course, he was getting it all wrong, and something dark and hungry inside her reveled in Neal’s deference. After the fourth month; however, the saner, wiser part of her got its fill of careful, respectful, gentle Neal. She needed to deal with him _again_ , but before that she talked with Peter on one of the few nights that Neal spent separate from them.

“Are you happy?”

Her husband looked up from his laptop, the monitoring program showing Neal’s steady position at June’s place. Her question put a worried expression on his face. “Yes – and are you?”

“I am, and yet, I’m not.”

Peter set the computer aside (but leaving it opened, to monitor Neal’s location), and pulled his wife onto his lap. “El, you’re confusing me. You aren’t happy? Am I making you unhappy – has Neal done something?”

Peter’s confusion was sweet, and the same dark place that enjoyed Neal’s careful consideration of her feelings took satisfaction in Peter’s touch of fear, but her better nature maintained firm control. “Honey, it’s more about what Neal hasn’t done, or isn’t willing to do.”

“I don’t understand.” Peter look of confusion deepened.

“Neal treats me like a goddess.”

“Is that a problem?”

“If he was merely a sexual convenience, no. I would certainly enjoy the worship. But if we are trying to be a real family – if what we have is meant to be permanent, then I want to be treated like an equal.”

“El, I don’t understand.”

“He’s so careful. Can’t you see – unless you say something stupid...”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Stupid?”

“Yes, stupid, hurtful – like that time you asked Neal if he thought I was Kate.”

Peter had the grace to flush and look away. “I had a reason for doing that,” he muttered.

“Unless you do something to jerk his chain – intentionally or unintentionally – Neal behaves like he’s a house guest on sufferance and that I must never, ever feel slighted by what goes on between the two of you. I wonder if he keeps an accounting -- for every kiss he gets from you, I have to get two in return.”

Peter smiled, “Is that so bad?”

El frowned, he wasn’t getting her point. “It’s not that it’s good or bad – it’s unrealistic. We are all equally invested in the relationship. We are all equally entitled to be selfish.”

Peter said nothing, but she could see him consider the problem. “Let me ask you this. If we weren’t married...”

“El...” Peter started to interrupt.

“No, let me finish. If we weren’t married, and you were involved with Neal to the same extent you are now, what would want your relationship to be?”

“I don’t think I understand your question.”

She sighed and shook her head. Peter was so thick sometimes. “Would you get temporary residency in Massachusetts?”

Her husband blinked, looked confused and then the light dawned. Without hesitation, he replied “Absolutely.” And then he asked “Do you feel the same way?”

El grinned at her slightly foolish husband. “Silly, Neal and I wouldn’t need to move to the Massachusetts. We could get married right here in New York. If I wasn’t married to you.” She hugged him.

“So – we both want to be married to Neal and to each other – not exactly legal in any state in the country.”

El sniffed. “Stupid conventional morality. There’s nothing inherently wrong with polyamory.”

“Poly-what?”

“Polyamory. An open, consensual, intimate relationship among several people based on ethics, honesty and transparency.”

Peter looked at her and smirked. “You’ve been doing research again.” She swatted him.

“I like knowing what I’m getting into.” She blushed, just a little. “Or we could consider our relationship a plural marriage without an officiation.”

“Have I told you recently how smart and wonderful you are?” Peter kissed her, sweetly and deeply, stealing her breath and her soul. But she didn’t let herself be distracted.

“My point is that Neal’s treading too carefully. I’m sure a lot of it is still the trauma from Kate’s betrayal and murder, plus the uncertainly of where everything stands with Mentor and OPR.” She grimaced, knowing how much Peter worried – his constant fear that OPR would snatch Neal away, that Mentor was listening in on every call. “But the fact is, Neal doesn’t have to treat me like I’m fragile or I’ll collapse into a jealous fit if I don’t get an equal share.”

“You won’t?” Peter seemed bemused by this.

“No – and you know me better. I wouldn’t have agreed to this relationship if it was going to need to be as carefully legislated as the health care bill. We don’t need to lay out rules and regulations...we need to be who we are.”

“That’s asking a lot, honey. As much as we all want to be together, you know that there will be problems. Maybe having a set of rules would make this easier.”

She glared at him. “You don’t get it...rules like that will break us. Probably we two will end up being fine, but not Neal. Box him in with a set of guidelines and the first thing he’ll do is find loopholes, whether he needs them or not. You’ll be in a constant state of aggravation and I’ll spend more time being a peacemaker than a piece of ass.” She snickered at the bad taste of her own witticism. “That’s not to say I’m not averse to ensuring that everyone gets what that want. And need.”

Peter held her close. “And what do YOU want, Elizabeth Burke?”

“I want the three of us to be as comfortable and as easy as the two of us are.”

“That’s a pretty tall order. Anything else while you’re at it?”

“Yeah, I want to watch the two of you make out. On a regular basis.”

"That's nice. I happen to like making out with Neal. Do you want to know what I want?"

"Sure." El had a feeling she knew what Peter was going to say.

"Discretion."

"Uh huh. And?"

"Blowjobs. Frequent blowjobs."

She smiled against her husband’s strong chest, feeling his heart beat just a little faster.

"Wonder what Neal wants? Besides making out and blowjobs.”  
 __

FIN


End file.
